Message from the Potter: Steadfast Enough to Change

September has always felt like a month caught between two things.

Summer isn’t quite finished, but fall is beginning to make itself known.

The mornings feel a little different. The light changes. Before long, the trees will start doing what they do every year—changing color and letting go.

And remarkably, they manage to do all of this without having an existential crisis about it.

No tree is standing on the side of the mountain thinking,

But green was really working for me.

Meanwhile, I would personally appreciate a detailed transition plan, three references, a projected outcome, and some assurance that everything is going to be okay before we proceed.

When the Plan Changes

I’ve been thinking a lot about change lately.

Not necessarily the big, dramatic kind.

The quieter kind.

Plans changing.

Priorities shifting.

Realizing something you thought you wanted doesn’t fit quite like it used to.

Looking at the path in front of you and realizing it doesn’t look anything like the one you drew in your head.

I’ve spent a lot of my life believing that if I worked hard enough, planned carefully enough, and stayed responsible enough, I could control at least some of what happened next.

Life, apparently, did not receive a copy of my plan.

Neither did owning a small business.

And definitely not pottery.

I’m working on it.

All Those “Shoulds”

I think some of what makes change uncomfortable isn’t actually the change itself.

It’s losing the picture we had in our heads of how things were supposed to be.

There are so many “shoulds” we collect along the way.

What success should look like.

Where we should be by a certain age.

How we should act.

What our bodies should look like.

What kind of work we should be doing.

What our relationships, families, businesses—and lives—should look like by now.

We absorb these molds without even realizing we’re doing it.

Which is particularly funny coming from someone who has made a career out of working with clay.

I’ve spent a good portion of my life trying to fit into molds.

Maybe it’s time to break a few.

Because lately I’ve found myself wondering:

Who decided that was the shape my life was supposed to take in the first place?

And what might happen if I stopped trying so hard to fit into it?

Steadfast Doesn’t Mean Stuck

At the beginning of this year, I chose steadfast as my word.

I wanted something that reminded me to stay grounded. To be consistent. To trust myself.

But here’s something I didn’t fully understand when I chose it:

Being steadfast doesn’t mean being immovable.

I can be steadfast in what matters to me and still change how I get there.

I can be committed and change my mind.

I can be grounded and still pivot.

I can believe deeply in a vision while allowing that vision to become something I couldn’t have imagined

when I started.

Maybe steadfastness isn’t planting my feet and refusing to move.

Maybe it’s knowing what matters deeply enough that I’m willing to change almost everything else.

The Pivot Isn’t the Failure

Business has certainly taught me this.

I’ve had ideas that worked beautifully.

I’ve had ideas that absolutely did not.

I’ve made plans that lasted years and plans that probably should have been reconsidered by Tuesday afternoon.

There have been moments when changing direction felt like admitting I’d gotten something wrong.

I’m beginning to see it differently.

A pivot isn’t necessarily evidence that the original plan failed. Sometimes it’s evidence that you’ve learned enough to make a better plan.

That’s true in business.

And I think it’s true in life, too.

We’re allowed to learn.

We’re allowed to outgrow things.

We’re allowed to say, This worked for me once, but it doesn’t anymore.

We’re allowed to become someone we didn’t know how to imagine yet.

Clay Never Really Goes According to Plan Either

Maybe that’s another reason I keep finding life lessons in clay.

I stand at the wheel with a very specific idea of what I’m going to make.

Sometimes that’s exactly what happens.

Other times, the clay has plans of its own.

Something shifts beneath my hands, and I have a choice.

I can fight it and keep forcing the clay toward the picture in my head until the whole thing collapses.

Or I can pay attention.

I can loosen my grip.

I can respond to what’s actually happening instead of insisting on what I thought was supposed to happen.

And sometimes I end up making something better than what I originally planned.

Not because I stopped guiding the clay.

Because I stopped trying to control every inch of it.

I’m beginning to suspect life works much the same way.

Trusting What I Can’t See Yet

Letting go of control doesn’t mean I’ve stopped making plans.

Oh, please.

Let’s not get carried away.

I still love a plan.

I still have goals. I still work hard. I still care deeply about where I’m going.

What I’m trying to loosen is my grip on exactly how I have to get there.

There is a difference between having direction and demanding certainty.

I can make the best decision I know how to make today and trust myself to make another one tomorrow.

I can let something unfold before deciding what it means.

And maybe I can even allow myself to be surprised.

That’s a different kind of trust for me.

Not trusting that everything will work out exactly the way I want.

Trusting that I will be okay even when it doesn’t.

And maybe even trusting that a life I didn’t plan could become a life I really love.

A Season for Letting Go

Soon the leaves around us will change.

Then they’ll let go completely.

And somehow, we don’t look at those trees and think they’ve failed.

We call them beautiful.

We drive up the mountain just to see them.

Maybe there’s something in that.

Maybe change doesn’t always mean something is going wrong.

Maybe letting go isn’t always loss.

And maybe growing into a life that looks different from the one we once thought we “should” have isn’t

something we need to explain or apologize for.

So this season, I’m practicing something new.

I’m trying to loosen my grip on the picture and hold tighter to the purpose.

To stay steadfast without staying stuck.

To make plans without demanding guarantees.

To trust what I know and stay curious about what I don’t.

And to remember that sometimes the most beautiful seasons begin when something finally decides it’s

okay to change.

Apparently, the trees have known this all along.

I’m just catching up.

And maybe, every once in a while, it’s okay to break the damn mold.

With muddy hands and a warm heart,

Cris

The Potter